


Nightmare

by Generouslyinnercheesecake



Series: Evolution [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Asperger Syndrome, Bad Parent Talia al Ghul, Bruce Wayne doesn’t understand feelings, But still feels horrible, C-PTSD, Damian Wayne Feels, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Fatherhood, Nightmares, Past Child Abuse, Stimming, don’t we all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-04 00:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21188267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Generouslyinnercheesecake/pseuds/Generouslyinnercheesecake
Summary: Damian relives his trauma.





	Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: All public characters, settings, etc. are not mine and are property of DC comics. I am not making money off of this work. All my original characters/plot are property of me, the author, and I am not associated with DC comics in any way, shape or form.
> 
> A/N: Hello, lovelies! I know a lot of people liked my last story, Enucleation, so I decided to expand on that universe. A couple other short fics based on this universe will be posted, so please stay tuned. I hope you enjoy the chapter. 
> 
> WARNING: Mentions of child abuse (physical, emotional)

Damian felt the wind roaring past his ears, its sound hauntingly familiar. As he peered down the edge of the cliff, he felt his stomach drop horribly. His mouth opened slightly as he fought for some sort of saliva. His mouth felt too dry. 

His mother had only left him with a long pole on the island. At first, he had been excited at the prospect of a new challenge, but when he saw the tightrope, stretching for over 40 feet, leading from his island to Nanda Parbat, he felt his throat tighten. 

Damian had never been very good at balancing.

Talia knew this—which is why she had put this task to her son. According to what she had said in the helicopter, his lack of balance was hindering on his path to becoming the next heir to the League. Damian was fully aware of his own inability to stay in one place without managing to jump lamely on one leg, but wanted to argue that he was still perfectly skilled in his own ways—may have even used his inability to balance as a way of advantage. She would not believe him, however; and Talia would only serve him a backhand for talking back. 

Damian wrapped his tiny, shaking fingers around the pole. It was ten feet, much longer than he could comprehend at the small age of five. 

As he scaled the distance between the two island, he felt dread fill his tummy.  _How am I to complete this without falling to my death?_ He wondered to himself. However, just as he thought that, an idea popped into his head. 

The little boy smirked to himself as he threw the pole down the depth of the chasm. He waited to recognize the faint smack of the pole hitting the bottom of the cliff. It took seven seconds. Damian bit his bottom lip and flapped his hands at his sides. 

_Perhaps Mother will appreciate my innovation_. 

Damian walked to the very edge of the cliff, then sat. He scooted to the very edge so his legs would lie along the side of the cliff. Damian, with shaking hands, grasped the rope with both his hands and pushed his bottom off the edge. 

He felt his breath quicken and his legs flail around uselessly. He refused to look down—it would only cause him great distress, and that wasn’t necessary right now. Mother taught him that. 

Slowly, his hands still shaking, he released one hand and hurriedly placed it further on the rope.  _One foot. 39 more_ , he thought to himself, the horrible feeling in his tummy intensifying. He removed the opposite hand from the rope behind him, and dragged it forward. He could feel his hands beginning to burn. 

He  _needed _ something. Something to relieve his anxiety. Damian, with his short legs kicking around, made a -_tt_\- sound with his tongue, the foreign action comforting in its own way. Mother had always hated him for his physical...issues, but Mother was gone and this was not so physical. 

By the time he was at Nanda Parbat, he could hardly breathe and his hands were bloody and most likely infected. However, he was happy. He made his mother happy. As long as Mother was satisfied with his performance, he was one step closer to becoming the heir of the League, therefore one step closer to freedom. 

As Damian stepped into the palace, he instantly noticed the form of his mother. She was standing at the edge of the mats, her sword at ease in her right hand. He couldn’t quite read her expression, but he never could. “Ibn,” Talia regarded him, then lifted her sword. Damian’s excitement spiked. Perhaps she were to challenge him in a dual—she never allowed him to. She refused it, saying that he was undeserving of such a challenge. Damian hoped that one day he could work up to that. Hoped that he would be able to make his mother happy. 

“You are a disgrace to your heritage,” Talia said monotonously, shocking him. “Listen to my instructions, Ibn. I need not say that anymore,  you stupid boy ,” she spat at him. 

Damian didn’t know what to say. _What did the rules of his society tell him to say in reply to that?_ “Mother,” he whispered tearily. It was only then that he felt the tears that were quickly filling his eyes. 

“Get out of my sight, Ibn,” Talia waved him off, and left the room with no more regard to her son. 

Damian’s hands flapped at his sides as he thought of what he did wrong. What  did  he do wrong? Was this all his fault? His Mother had to be mistaken.  _But Mother is never wrong_. 

The rules of society constantly failed him, he noticed. They never gave him the proper way to respond, nor the proper way to carry himself. Never the right methods. Never the right questions. Never the right answers. The guidelines of society had constantly failed him, making him to receive the harsh punishment of Mother’s words. Sometimes the harsh punishment of her hand. 

He felt a sword at his neck suddenly, the metal nearly penetrating the skin. “To your chambers, boy,” the guard spat at him. Damian wanted to peer down at his neck to see if blood began to sprout, but also resisted. The sight of blood always made his skin crawl—especially when it was dripping down his skin. 

Damian despised himself when he felt his bottom lip tremble petulantly. 

* * *

He was screaming. He could feel his lungs expanding and  expanding and his vocal chords ache meanly. Sweat poured at his neck and forehead, and before Damian could stop his own shaking hand, he felt the part of his neck that the guard had almost penetrated. It was bare, the only thing there the stickiness of his sweat drying down.  _No blood_. 

Damian then turned over his hands to see his palms. _Nothing. No blood, sign of infection, or burns_. 

_Knock, knock. _

Damian didn’t want to look away from his hands, so he muttered out a short, “Come in,” while he continued staring down at his hands. His concentration mustn’t be broken. 

Bruce opened the door, quickly scanning Damian to see if he was physically okay. When satisfied, he stepped closer to the boy. 

“I am aware that I was screaming,” Damian said, not breaking his gaze away from his hands. “It will not happen again,” he apologized, although his hoarse voice did nothing to support his own argument. 

Bruce grimaced. “Having a nightmare is okay, Damian,” he murmured. 

A long pause. 

Then: “Mother never allowed it.” 

Bruce felt his heart ache for Damian. He hesitantly sad down at the edge of the boy’s vast bed, and it hit Bruce just then that Damian’s hands were shaking. “I’m not your mother,” Bruce said, clenching his jaw when Damian still didn’t look up at him. 

_He told me upstairs that you’ve been treating him like Talia would’ve treated him_ , Dick’s voice naggingly jumped around Bruce’s head. 

Damian—and Bruce would never forget this— _whimpered_.  “You’re still disappointed by me,” Damian stated, as though it were fact. 

And Bruce felt self-hate claw at his insides, as an infection would. 

“I am not disappointed in you, Damian,” Bruce whispered. He wanted to yell it so loud that everyone in the manor could hear it, but could only find his voice would produce a whisper. “I will never be disappointed in you.” 

Damian’s bottom lip trembled, and Bruce felt the infection spread. 

“You constantly criticize me for what I perceive as positive attributes. Mother did that, too,” Damian whispered back, still staring at his hands. Bruce wanted to say  something , say that Damian was wrong and making this all up. But he couldn’t. 

Because Bruce knew he was right. 

Damian continued, “I try  _so_ hard, Father.” His voice shook at he said this, and Damian couldn’t help but continue to spill everything. There was no point to holding everything in—at least, that’s what therapy was slowly teaching him. Having autism meant people expected you to work harder to be someone new, someone that society would accept. However, Damian couldn’t find himself to care about society’s guidelines. He needed to say everything and by not doing so he was only giving into society’s expectations. 

The only approval he craved was from the people who cared for him—he was beginning to learn. 

“I work so hard to maintain my title as Robin. As your son,” Damian choked out. He could feel his shoulders shaking as he attempted to suppress his rising sobs. 

Bruce clenched his jaw harder, blanking out his expression. Attempted to seem as though the infection wasn’t permeating his entire body at this point. “I know you do, Damian,” Bruce reassured him emotionlessly.  What else was he to say? How could he articulate how he truly felt about Damian? The boy was a pain, but Bruce loved him . 

“No, Father, you don’t,” Damian detested as he finally broke his gaze from his own hands. His hands remained on the blankets, away from Bruce’s eyes, but he continued talking, the words slightly slurred yet also slow, calculated: “I...” Damian pulled at his hair, frustration building the more he thought of what he should say. After a few more moments of deliberation, he continued, “I fought for the title of the Demon. I had my life threatened more times than one could comprehend.” Damian felt his hands drop to his lap in a disciplined manner. The boy began wringing his fingers—to see if they were real—and the blanket suddenly felt too heavy as it draped across his legs. “I have su...suffered at the hands of the person who made me.” 

Damian hiccuped, no longer able to suppress the tears. He continued, speaking slowly, “Then, I came here and I started with a completely new slate.” The blanket felt suffocating, so he shoved it off his legs. “I could not fight with my fists-no, simply with what my  _new_ family had perceived as  _love_ ,” Damian bit out, feeling angry. 

Damian briefly thought,  _perhaps that’s why you crave Father and Grayson’s attention—you love them and they_, you , but pushed that away to the back of mind. 

Bruce took a heavy breath. They have had this conversation various times before. “Damian-“ 

_ But Mother never loved me.  She  _ _taught me to fight with my fists_. 

“Mother never loved me, so I had nothing to fight with,” Damian gasped out, finally surrendering to his built-up sobs.

Bruce closed his eyes, knowing he wouldn’t be able to handle the sight of his son sobbing. The sounds simply hurt him—physically and emotionally and mentally. “Damian,” Bruce said hoarsely, “I’m sorry.” Bruce corrected himself, “For acting disappointed in you, when I am anything but that.”

Damian hiccuped, then leaned back in his pillows. “Okay,” he gasped out.

Bruce’s head lowered, recognizing the unconvinced tone in his son’s voice. Before he could think of what he was saying, he asked, “What was your nightmare about?” 

Damian squirmed uncomfortably. “I would rather not say,” the boy replied, glancing down at his hands. 

Bruce paused, wanting to protest but also resisting enough to respect his son’s privacy. “Okay.” Bruce then got up from the edge of Damian’s bed, planning to leave and only mull over the night’s events instead of sleeping. 

“Father,” Damian interjected, and Bruce turned to face him, although the boy still avoided his eye contact, “I understand you are not Mother.” 

Bruce felt his chest quake, Dick’s words crossing his mind once again. It had been over a month, but he still couldn’t manage them out of his head. “Thank you,” he replied. “Can I leave, or do you want me to stay?” He asked him. 

Damian unintentionally sunk into his pillow further. “No,” he answered. “Thank you,” he added when he remembered rules that Grayson and Father had given him. 

“You’re welcome, Damian.” 

Bruce left his son’s room, feeling disappointed in himself. 

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: I originally wanted to integrate this concept in Enucleation, but I felt it didn’t fit. So here you go! 
> 
> I hope you all have an absolutely amazing day! All love! <3


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